Before he even opened the door in the country house where he lived, he knew in his heart of hearts (i.e. his one heart located in the normal place behind his ribs, of course) that there would be something waiting for him on the other side. It was almost a primordial, animal instinct -- lustful and without consideration for social standards or what his distant great-aunt Berthnia would say, had she not been stamped to death by a herd of terrapins the year before -- like a fire in his loins, but less devastatingly painful, and less warranting the intervention of a medical professional...

There she was, confirming the suspicions of his metaphorically sindered knackers (his gametes figuratively writhing on the floor; immersed in the objective tragedy that is being burned to death before you've even been born)... lying in his bed WITH JUST HER PANTS ON. Yes, it was Miranda Pigeonmaster -- the nubile twenty-one year old stable wench, whose job it was to scoop Derek's cack into a big barrel (Derek is a horse).

"I wonder," she purred seductively, not like a cat because that would be weird but like a sexy lady doing an impression of a cat in a bang tidy way, "What the butler or the maid would say if they walked in on us like this?"

"She'd probably have something to say about you having just thrown my clothes from the bed onto the floor," he said, simply because - though he could feel the stirring of a wicked semi - he was actually quite annoyed and had spent hours arranging his clothes on the bed that he would wear for dinnertime and now they were all creased and he'd have to fold them; he wouldn't mind but he'd put off going down and playing polo with Chester Barnswicke and Lord Smethington Smethingwhyge Smethley, which he would have really enjoyed, to stay in and make sure his shirts were ironed and folded.

And there they were... strewn about the floor... all creased... and they probably had some bits of mess from the floor on them, not least because he had sneaked a cheeky joint of pork upstairs for a light snack and had eaten it quite messily like a hog (some sort of cannibalistic hog) while he played Alien Isolation. So yes, his clothes were probably in no fit state to be worn to the big dinner now, in front of the nobles... and where was he going to get another outfit now? He was all for spontaneous passion and carnal lust, but why could she not have been more considerate? Surely she could see that the clothes had been carefully folded and placed? FOR GOD'S SAKE, HE THOUGHT, WAS HE GOING TO HAVE TO LEAVE NOTES ABOUT THE PLACE? SIZE 72 COMIC SANS... DISPLAYING EXACT INSTRUCTIONS REGARDING WHAT OBVIOUS THINGS WERE NOT TO BE MOVED AND MESSED AROUND WITH?

In the midst of his internal fury, he came to notice that she had been fellating him for quite some time.